


When the Levee Breaks

by profanedaisychain



Series: Fractured Crown [6]
Category: Skulduggery Pleasant - Derek Landy
Genre: Angst, Be prepared I guess?, Characters die, Dubious Consent, F/M, Graphic Violence, Romantic Angst, Sex, Violence, but that's to be expected with a Death Bringer so, no spoilers or mentions for book 13, part 6 in series, please read the other stories first before jumping into this one, power always corrupts, spin-off story from the main plot, spiralling/general insanity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:42:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 9,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24425218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/profanedaisychain/pseuds/profanedaisychain
Summary: While the Arbiters busy themselves in Australia, Melancholia struggles to weigh the pros and cons of her choices - and the choices of her Death Bringer.| Part 6 of the Fractured Crown Series | AU - Canon Divergent | No spoilers or references to book 13 |
Relationships: Melancholia St Clair/Death Bringer OC, background relationships from the main series, melancholia st clair/Leviathan (OC), melancholia st clair/original character
Series: Fractured Crown [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1320746
Kudos: 9





	1. Soulmates

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome back! I'm so glad you're here with me again. For the usual blanket statement - I don't own anything, of course. Almost all of the characters/magical locations in this story belong to Derek Landy.
> 
>  **Note:** This, like _Doves and Ravens,_ is a wee-bit of a short spin-off. If you WANT to skip the story, you can - some of the events will be referenced later, but this isn't highly relevant to the main over-arching plot. I hope you stick around and enjoy this story anyway, though! 
> 
> ♥Lots of love to all of you!♥

* * *

  
His breath is always so muggy on her neck, overpowering the very air around them like a bubble of heat. Melancholia St Clair isn't sure how it's like breathing underwater when she's with him, but it always is. 

Leviathan pants against her ear, leaning over her, thrusting with his entire being. It sometimes hurts - how much he loves her. How intensely he shows it. It hurts now - uncomfortable enough that Melancholia can't even think of enjoying the moment.

"Wait," she gasps when his fingers dig into the soft flesh of her right breast. "Wait!" she says a little louder when the hand bracing him on the bed fists the bedsheets and his rutting intensifies.

Leviathan slows but doesn't stop. He straightens up, his sweat-slicked front slipping free from her back. Melancholia catches her breath, collects herself a little better, tries to pretend her cervix isn't throbbing in pain, and whispers, "Okay."

It continues, but he finally comes, saying her name, leaning back down to press his face into her hair. He stays inside of her until he can't anymore. When he moves away, he rolls her over and strokes her face, her tangles of hair, and smiles.

"I'm happier now than I have ever been," he tells her. He thanks her, too - he always does when they finish. 

Melancholia smiles, curling against him despite her abdomen's screaming. She ignores the pain behind her eyes, the one that threatens tears, and presses her face to the slick hollow of his throat.

"I love you," he says.

Melancholia closes her eyes. _Love._ Isn't that interesting? Someone loves her. _Her._ Melancholia St Clair. "And I love you," she murmurs into his skin because that's the only appropriate response.

He holds her while she drifts into a semi-lucid doze. He holds her until she jolts free, warm slickness worming its way out of her and onto her thigh. "I'll be right back," she murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion, and gets to her feet.

Leviathan's room has a private bathroom; for that, Melancholia is grateful. She uses the facilities, cleans up, combs her long hair with her fingers, and then freezes. Melancholia stares at herself, at the lithe form reflecting at her, and tilts her head. Her hair, slightly lank from three days without washing, slides over her shoulder at the motion.

Melancholia wonders what Leviathan sees when he looks at her. All Melancholia can see are wide eyes and a mouth meant for frowning.

She lets out a soft sigh and opens the bathroom door.

Leviathan isn't there, but a diseased-looking man is.

"Scapegrace!" she snaps, struggling to cover herself. She gives up when she remembers he's a zombie and probably has no desire for anything resembling a naked Necromancer. "Where is Leviathan?"

"He's below, Mistress," Scapegrace replies quickly, standing to attention, straightening up as much as he can. After his trip to America via a cramped suitcase, his spine has bowed.

Melancholia lets out a little sound of annoyance before reaching for her underthings. She dresses quickly, pulling her robe down over her leggings and tunic. "Did he say what he plans to do?"

"He is experimenting," Scapegrace replies, nodding proudly. He says it anytime Melancholia asks; she isn't sure why she bothers anymore.

"Of course."

"I will escort you."

Melancholia thinks about it before shaking her head. "No."

She pretends that Scapegrace doesn't follow her when she goes to her room. She shuts the door in his face as if he isn't there and then rummages through her bag for leaves. The medicine works almost instantly, soothing her cramps and letting her breathe fully.

She lies on her bed. She fiddles with the collar of her robe, and then she picks up her phone from where she hides it in her bedside table. It opens to Instagram, the last app she used.

Alice Edgley is one of Melancholia's only friends on the platform. After everything that Alice did for her, she might be Melancholia's only real friend. Which is rather sad, she supposes, seeing as the eleven-year-old is bound to Melancholia through nothing other than suffering.

And Alice's pain-in-the-ass sister.

There's a picture of Alice and her mum. Alice and some of her friends at school, their uniforms pressed and nondescript enough to not give Roarhaven away to any mortal contacts she has. There's one of Alice and her sister, too. Valkyrie looks to be in a hospital bed; Melancholia briefly wonders what happened, but she pushes it aside when she notices Valkyrie's eyes. 

Valkyrie looks tired; there's something in her gaze - something off. Something haunted. Her smile is wide; her arms slung around her sister with nothing short of utter adoration, but...something isn't right.

Valkyrie Cain's profile - _Stephanie Edgley's_ , according to the name at the top - is private. When Melancholia clicks on it, all she can see is the profile picture of Valkyrie and her massive German Shepard. Valkyrie's perfect simper makes irrational bouts of irritation prickle through Melancholia - waves of annoyance crashing around her, swelling up, overtaking her.

Melancholia replaces the phone in her side table, closing her eyes and focusing on her heartbeats. Valkyrie Cain is nothing - Melancholia is here with her soulmate, with her saviour, and Valkyrie Cain isn't going to ruin this for her.  
  


* * *


	2. El Paso

* * *

  
“Would you rather…fall down a flight of foam-rubber stairs for a mile, or-“

“Stop!” Never snaps, finally fed up. “Just stop.”

“You didn’t even hear what the other choice was!”

“Whatever it was, it was stupid. And the obvious choice - you’d die if you fell that far down a flight of stairs.”

“They’re foam-rubber though.”

“It’s still over a bloody kilometre. You pick up speed, you know. You’d bounce off of one step, skip six, hit one really hard, go careening again, and then eventually fall so far and so fast that you literally die.”

Sanguine thinks about it, rolling it around. “Nah. I think ya’d live.”

“You’re an idiot then,” Never mutters.

“Well, the other choice was crawlin’ through a mile of dog shit.”

Never narrows his eyes and turns his attention from the window to Sanguine. “You should try running so I can shock the hell out of you.”

“Not gonna happen, my friend,” Sanguine says, leaning forward in his chair. “You ain’t gonna shock me ‘less I run off or make a move against ya, so I think I’ll just be a good boy like my mama taught me.”

“Did she teach you to shut up?”

“Nah, she was deaf.” When Never doesn’t know how to react, Sanguine’s breathtakingly white teeth show with the force of his grin. “I’m jus’ kiddin’, she wasn’t deaf.”

Never opens his mouth - to say what, he isn’t sure - but then stalls. His phone buzzes in his pocket, as it’s done each morning for the past two days. He checks the message and lets out a little sigh. “Well, looks like you were wrong about Andrea dying out.”

“Who?”

“Andrea.” No reaction. “The tropical storm? You know, the thing I’ve been freaking out about? Well, she’s a full-blown hurricane now.”

“Category one?” Sanguine asks, unconcerned. At Never’s nod, he grins. “See? Nothin’ to worry about. It’s too early in the year for hurricanes, so she’ll pro’lly just spin around a little, make the weather boys nervous, then fizzle out before she’s even close to landfall.” He slaps his thighs and proclaims, “Time for a leak.”

Never rolls his eyes and stands, following Sanguine to the small bathroom in the little shack across the way from the cemetery they’ve watched for a week. He leans against the doorframe, averts his gaze, and rolls his eyes when Sanguine sings El Paso for the fiftieth time today.

“Can you not?” Never mutters.

“-a drink he was sharing with wicked Felina, the girl that I loved,” he continues while flushing and zipping.

“How do you still enjoy this song when you’ve sung it for a week straight?” Never demands. Never thinks he might go Insane, capital-I and all. He will need a psychiatric hospital once he gets free from Sanguine. If he gets free. If this torture ever ends.

“My challenge was answered in less than a heartbeat - the handsome young stranger lay dead on the floor,” Sanguine adds, intent on further assholery. He washes his hands, switches from singing to whistling, and bustles past Never toward his seat at the window.

“The girls in southern Texas,” Sanguine murmurs, shaking his head and glancing up at the ceiling. “You don’t know beauty until you meet one of them girls, I tell you.”

Never doesn’t bother telling him to shut up - he won’t. He’ll never shut up.

And Sanguine continues. “I had a girl back when - pretty little thing. Black-haired, black-eyed, the most beautiful goddamn skin ya ever saw. Caramel-coloured, with this beauty mark under her left eye-“

Never freezes when he reaches the window, eyes narrowing. The two Necromancers who pretend to do groundskeeping around the Temple aren’t in the yard. No one is. The cemetery is cold and empty. “Something’s wrong,” Never murmurs.

“-tits like ya wouldn’t believe-”

Never reaches over and punches him in the arm. “Look!” he hisses when Sanguine utters an angry grunt.

Sanguine, sighing and rubbing his arm, looks through the glass. His face sobers. “Where’d they go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Where’s their relief team?”

“I don’t know.”

Sanguine looks at Never from behind his glasses and offers a lopsided smile. “Maybe they needed an emergency piss, too.”  
  


* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song referenced is an old song called “El Paso,” by Marty Robbins.


	3. Practise

* * *

  
He lets the souls slip around his fingers when he takes them. He enjoys the sensation - the feeling of absolute power, of pure love.

Leviathan has never loved as much in his life. When he was a child, his mother feared that he was a sociopath - someone bound for the nuthouse, as she called it. She was mortal and, like most mortals, tied up in her image. _Does this make the family look good?_ was a common question that flitted through his mother's mind.

Having a son who enjoyed killing small birds to analyse their insides - the inner workings, the pure magic of life - was not a good look for a family. Neither is beating your child, mind you, but it's the deep south - as long as it's done behind closed doors, everyone is polite enough to look the other way. 

But now it makes sense; he was never a sociopath, never divorced from reality - he was preparing for this moment. For his future. For being the Death Bringer.

For bringing death, even if it isn't in the way the High Priests require.

But they don't matter - they've never mattered in the grand scheme of things.

The souls flit around his fingers before he draws them inside of himself. He breaks them down into little pieces, little molecules that feed off of one another, crowding in to join the masses of those he's borrowed.

He puts the pieces together - not properly, though. Properly putting them together is too easy. Instead, he twines them around the other souls. He further breaks them down, stretches them out. He feels them resist, but the resistance lasts less and less time as Leviathan absorbs them.

Across the room, the egg timer shrills. It jolts Leviathan out of his thoughts; he reluctantly releases the souls into the bodies. He still feels pieces of them inside his essence, soaked into him, moulding like a sutured wound.

The chests of the men rise and fall again. Leviathan watches them; they don't wake, but they breathe and blink at the ceiling, listless without the parts of themselves that made them _them._ Leviathan owns those bits now. 

He crosses the room, re-sets the timer, and returns with a small penknife his father gave him before dying in an oil rig explosion. It's cherry wood inlaid with a gold filament. It's worn in places, but it is still beautiful. Still cherished.

The penknife flicks open, the small blade catching in the medical lighting. It sends tiny flashes of light into Leviathan's eyes, but he doesn't squint - it doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts anymore.

He slices the penknife across one body - Brother Donnic? Brother Capela? They all look the same to Leviathan now - and he watches the blood flow, the knife nick further, hitting muscle, hitting vein.

Brother-Whoever doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. He stares at the ceiling, an emotionless husk. There are no tears, no yells, no sign of pain.

It's fascinating that a little piece, a tiny sliver, of Leviathan's own soul can make this. Can create these husks.

He carves into their arms. He traces designs he sees in his mind every night, little coiling and curling designs that wrap around forearms and calves.

When the egg timer goes off, Leviathan cleans his blade and tucks it away. He gives their souls back to them -- _most_ of their souls. He keeps the important bits - things like love and desires and purpose - to himself.

When they fully come to, still unphased by their hurts, the open wounds, Leviathan smiles. "Welcome back, Brothers. Would you mind terribly finding Brother Horace and Sister Minos? Then return to your posts in the graveyard."

The pair get up from their slabs. They dress and leave with no emotion, no words. 

Leviathan watches them go, his smile soft, fond, affectionate.

This love - it's overwhelming. He wishes he could offer this feeling to everyone.  
  


* * *


	4. Staring Contest

* * *

  
Never wakes because Sanguine shoves him in the upper arm until he does. "What the hell?" Never groans, opening his eyes to find Sanguine straining against the iron cuffs binding them. He's looking out the window, his breath quick.

"Ya gotta see this," Sanguine murmurs. His voice is soft - softer than Never has ever heard it.

"That's the stupidest cliched thing to say." Even so, Never gets to his knees. He almost slips on the sleeping bag, but he manages to shuffle to the window, peering out with his chin on the sill. He freezes when his eyes adjust to the gloom, and then he recoils from the window.

"How long?" Never asks.

"Not sure. Just woke up."

"You fell asleep?! You're supposed to be on watch!"

"Yeah, well, you try’n be awake this late when it's finally coolin' off, and the rain starts tappin' so sweet." He pauses and adds, "They keep starin' this way, so I figured I needed to let ya know. You bein' solely responsible for my life an' all."

"Can they see us?" Never hates that he's nervous. He hates that his fingers tremble when he takes his phone and thumbs through until he finds Valkyrie's text with Melancholia's number.

"Don't think so," Sanguine murmurs, pressing his face to the window. His sunglasses make a terrible clinking noise when he talks, pushing against the pane with each mouth movement. "They don't know we're here 'less your little friends royally fucked up."

Never's fingers fly across the keyboard. _Melancholia, it's Never. Is something happening? Do you need an extraction?_

No response.

No response.

Ten minutes pass, and still no response.

"Shit," Never hisses, switching apps and opening the built-in Whispering account.  
  


* * *


	5. The Whispering (III)

* * *

**  
Never  
** I think something weird is going on at the Temple  
The usual guards disappeared for half the day, but now they’re back but they’re just standing there in the rain  
Staring toward the shack

 **Omen Darkly  
** Wait what’s happening?

 **Never  
** Exactly what I just said

 **Valkyrie Cain  
** Did you talk to Melancholia?

 **Never  
** I tried reaching out to her, but she’s not responding  
What do you want me to do?  
Investigate?

 **Valkyrie Cain  
** No, stay where you are  
Actually, no. Meet me at Grimwood in 10  
I’ll come back with you and take a look

 **Omen Darkly  
** You just got out of the hospital two days ago

 **Valkyrie Cain  
** Meaning I’m tip top 

**Never  
** What do you want me to do with Sanguine?

 **Valkyrie Cain  
** Bring him along  
It won’t take more than a minute

 **Never  
** Right  
Okay

 **Valkyrie Cain  
** Are you all right?

 **Never  
** Yeah  
I’m sure it’s nothing

 **Omen Darkly  
** I’ll come, too

 **Valkyrie Cain  
** No, stay on the sigils with China  
We need that device up and running before we can close the other portals

 **Never  
** I’ll be at Grimwood in 10  
  


* * *


	6. Slippery

* * *

  
Valkyrie is still putting a bag of clothes together when Never reaches Grimwood. She's doing so quite loudly and - from the sounds of it - she is leaving Xena in the house during her absence.

"Be good for Tanith," she tells the German Shepard. "And stop trying to bite the delivery man when he comes round."

When Valkyrie thumps down the stairs, her bag slung over her shoulder; she looks sleep-deprived. She's wearing her facade, which is an odd sight, but Never says nothing. "All right," Valkyrie sighs, glancing around. "Where's Sanguine?"

"At the shack. I tied him to the radiator."

Valkyrie winces and grabs Never's shoulder. "Don't leave him alone - ever."

"He'll be fine - it's a radiator, and it's been two minutes."

They disappear, reappearing in the shack.

Valkyrie snorts out an unamused laugh when they find the radiator assassin-less and Sanguine at the icebox, pulling out things to make a sandwich. 

"Hey, Val," he drawls when he turns to look at her. "Sorry to be draggin' ya out of your warm cosy bed in the middle of the night. Hope ya weren't in the middle 'a somethin'." He wiggles his eyebrows, tilting his head down so she can see under the sunglasses.

Valkyrie ignores him, going to the window and dropping her bag in the corner. She peers through the glass, frowning.

"How did you get free?" Never demands.

"I'm slippery," is the only offering.

"Then why are you still here?"

"I'm slippery, but I ain't stupid."

Valkyrie rights herself, glancing around the room. "It smells terrible in here."

"It gets hot as a ballsack during the day," Sanguine returns. "And _someone_ won't let me take a nice long shower on my own. Always hoverin' in doorways."

"You're slippery," Never reminds him. 

Sanguine, for all of his faults, grins at that. "Touche, little buddy."  
  


* * *


	7. Chase

* * *

  
Melancholia leaves her room in a rush, as is typical for her. This time she doesn't go to Leviathan's lab - she isn't prepared for him right now.

She pretends that the thing that used to be Vaurien Scapegrace isn't following her. She pretends that the scuff of footsteps behind her is someone pleasant. Her little brother, perhaps? 

Melancholia frowns. How long has it been since she saw him - _thought about him,_ even? Has he had his Surge yet? Surely so...

It makes Melancholia both amused and distressed that no one else comes to her mind other than a brother she hasn't seen in seven years. What does this say about Melancholia? About how she connects to people? Or _doesn't_ connect; she figures that's a more accurate way of framing it.

She supposes she should count Leviathan amongst those whose company pleases her. And yet she doesn't. What does _that_ say about her?

The hallways are silent as she makes her way into the cafeteria. It's a bit before noon, and yet no one is around. The cooks aren't in the galley; there's no sign of breakfast or lunch, no hint of anything besides silence.

"Scapegrace," she murmurs.

"Mistress?" he questions, standing to attention, chest puffed out. He has a bit of a problem keeping himself from doing that whenever she or Leviathan turn their attention on him. 

"How long has the Temple been this quiet?"

Scapegrace glances around them as if he hadn't noticed before. He probably hadn't - he's a terrible bodyguard if she's honest. "I..."

 _Useless,_ she thinks to herself. She pushes further into the room, glad for her quiet leather boots and the whisper-thin cloth of her robe. She doesn't make a sound as she strides through the chamber. Scapegrace follows behind, much less stealthy on his plodding feet.

At least he doesn't smell anymore, she supposes. At least Leviathan managed to stop the decay, to form some semblance of a man out of the creature. God if he doesn't look terrible, though. "Keep up," she says to be mean, quickening her own pace and smiling to herself when Scapegrace trudges after her on uncoordinated feet.

The kitchen is clean - there's no sign that anyone made food today. Grumbling to herself, pretending that the fine hairs on her arms aren't standing to attention, Melancholia opens one of the iceboxes and glances through. She settles on a tub of leftovers from the previous night - she can't tell what the hell the things are, but they smell amazing. Plopping one of the fried balls into her mouth, she chews and wanders toward the pantry. The dough is cold and slightly squishy from being in the fridge, but it's buttery and lobstery, so she doesn't mind. 

Melancholia eats another and opens the pantry door, beginning to hum to herself. There are massive boxes of all manner of things - mostly bread-based. She'd heard of Americans' love of nutritionless carbs, but it's baffling to see in person.

Not that Melancholia's complaining - it's been a fantastic break from the more nutritious offerings in her Temple.

She pauses, hand half-way to a container of cookies. _Her Temple._ Is it still her Temple? Surely not - she's aiding a Death Bringer who has no intention of serving his intended purpose. She's lied to her High Priest; she's all but defected already.

Scapegrace says something from the kitchen. She can't tell what, but his tone is worrying. Higher than she's used to - alarmed.

Melancholia leaves the pantry and rounds the corner to find High Priest Virulent's bodyguard running Scapegrace through with a carving knife. The blade sinks into his chest, into his heart, and Scapegrace stumbles. The zombie-thing reels, pushing the necromancer away from him, needlessly gasping for air as if alive.

"What are you doing?!" Melancholia demands. "I am Cleric St Clair, and he is my personal-"

Shadows rush from the man, careening for Melancholia with spear-tipped edges. Melancholia dives away, yelping as one slices across her bicep. She stumbles into the serving counter, hip bouncing off of the metal. Knees giving out, hip throbbing, Melancholia falls to the cold floor, eyes wide.

 _What's happening?_ That's what goes through Melancholia's mind when she rolls away from another attack, tossing the container of fried dough at her assailant. Those two words keep bouncing around her skull - What's happening? What's happening? What's - 

And then Scapegrace swoops in. He covers her body with his and ushers her out of the galley, tripping over her and around her, somehow managing not to fall. "Go, mistress," he attempts. "I will stop him with my infamous-"

And then a meat cleaver finds its way into his head, lodging deep, and Scapegrace hits the ground.

The necromancer grabs Melancholia's garment and yanks her close, a small blade slipping from his robe into his hand. He's quick - too quick for Melancholia. She manages to jerk away, to tear her clothes at the collar, but still earns a shallow slice across her neck.

She falls. The man comes down after her. Shadows spill from her locket - thick, thrashing with her panic - and wrap around the man's legs, spinning him up and tossing him across the room. He smashes across the serving counter, skids, and falls into the galley. 

Melancholia scrabbles across the floor, slipping on her torn robe, and grabs the meat cleaver lodged in Scapegrace's skull. It takes three attempts to get it out, but once the blade is free, Scapegrace is blinking and sitting up, looking around. "What-"

Darkness spills over the counter and toward them. Melancholia grunts and drags Scapegrace up with her. She tosses her right hand toward the oncoming flood; the shadows part, the barrage sliding around them.

But the necromancer is coming toward her; there are blades in both of his hands now. All Melancholia has is a meat cleaver and a useless zombie. 

The man's shadows fade out, becoming a cohesive shard that lances toward them. It breaks through her weakening shield as if it's nothing; Melancholia shouts, shoving Scapegrace to the side and falling to the other. "Get me out of here!" she yells to her bodyguard. 

Another shadow-spear comes for Melancholia; she slides under one of the long tables, shoving a chair toward her attacker and knocking him over. The darkness spilling from her amulet snakes around the man, and then around the seat. The man slams into the wall, and then the chair slams into the man. 

Scapegrace grabs Melancholia's upper arm and drags her to her feet. "Mistress-"

"Shut up!" she snaps, already losing her breath. God, if she lives through this, she's going to start running stairs. 

"You're bleeding!"

"I'm aware!" she returns, steering him to the left, her feet following the path she's walked for nearly two weeks. "Get me to Leviathan unless you want to be as dead as me by the end of the day."

A blank-faced necromancer stands in the middle of the hallway, watching her. Melancholia veers around the woman, but Scapegrace stumbles at the sudden motion, yelping and dragging Melancholia down with him. 

Melancholia's equilibrium spins; her uncoordinated eyes scan the hallway as best as they can. The man is coming toward them, shouting for the female necromancer to grab her. The woman, though, doesn't seize Melancholia - she steps forward and wraps her hands around the man's neck, wrestling him to the wall, attempting to dig her thumbs into his throat.

"Mistress!" Scapegrace hisses, pulling her up.

The attacker's wristlet swirls in shadow. The darkness seeps over the woman and turns sharp. It shreds through her clothes; she's eviscerated within seconds, nothing but strips of meat and splatters of blood.

Melancholia runs, nearly tripping over Scapegrace. The zombie leads her, though; his stumpy legs are somehow faster than hers. She's so bloody tired. She's never been in a real one-on-one fight before - she's never had to block attacks and run and dodge. Not like this.

They're close to the stairwell. They're almost to the lab - nearly to Leviathan - when a thick shadow takes Melancholia's feet out from under her. She goes spiralling, bringing Scapegrace down. A flash of blue light fills the stairwell when the zombie begins to roll down the steps. Crackling energy burns through the stone corridor - it catches Scapegrace, lifting his prone body off of the ground, the electricity dancing through his skin. 

A sigil. 

A sigil Melancholia would have gotten caught in. 

Melancholia scrambles up and runs down the hall and away from Leviathan's room, away from safety. She tries to ignore Scapegrace's screams. She tries to outrun the scent of burning flesh.

And behind her, the necromancer chases.  
  


* * *


	8. Catch/Release

* * *

  
Melancholia doesn't know where she's going at first, allowing her fright and her feet to carry her down the long, confusing corridors. She passes three brothers in the hallway, all loitering without purpose, staring without sight.

"Stop him!" Melancholia cries, really hoping these three are like the silent woman who saved her.

The three move as one, intercepting the shadows and the man casting them. She can hear the man making quick work of his would-be killers, but it gives Melancholia more time. Time is the important thing. Not those men. Not the woman. Not Scapegrace. _Time._

No one is guarding the Repository for the first time since Melancholia has been here. She rushes inside, nearly slipping down unexpected stairs. She manages to keep her feet under her, though, and tears through the long aisles of artefacts. Her eyes scan as well as they can between her panic and her haste.

Melancholia hears him enter the Repository at the same time she sees the rack of weapons. They're old things, possibly dull from aeons of disuse and sparse upkeep. But she doesn't give a single fuck - she grapples with a sword, fingers fumbling under the staggering weight.

A wave of shadow crashes into her; Melancholia's fingers release the blade. She and the rack smash into the wall, then to the floor. A knife cuts deep into her hands when she tries to grab it mid-fall. She hisses, rolls away from another attack, and tries to get to her feet. 

Melabncholia's hands sting and scream while she pitches around, somehow managing to put an aisle between her and her attacker. She runs mindlessly, terrified and choking back sobs. 

And then she sees it - the case is closed, more than likely locked, but the dagger inside seems to call to her. Seem to suck in the very air around it. 

Her hands, already torn and bloody, pound against the thick glass, hammering and cursing until it gives way. The hilt is light in her fingers - barely more than air - and she grips it, whirling around as another attack comes her way.

She lets the shadow hit her this time - she allows it to take her off of her feet. Her head smacks into a shelf and upends the old dusty tomes. Melancholia's face is wet with tears and sweat. Her head swims, but she stays conscious. 

The man comes for her with the sword she tried to take up against him. His hand flexes around the hilt. He doesn't smile, but there's something on his face - relief, perhaps. She's sure he hadn't expected this level of trouble when he came for her. Melancholia isn't even sure _she_ expected it.

"Do I get any last words?" Melancholia whispers. Her mouth is coppery. She bit her tongue at some point.

The man adjusts his hand on the long hilt and advances, uncaring, unresponsive.

"At least let me stand up," she mumbles. She uses her left hand to grip the bookcase beside her - her right hand curls around the dagger behind her hip. "Let me die on my feet."

He lets her. Of course he lets her - she's already given up. There's no way she can get to him, not when he is so strong and she is so weak. Not while she wobbles on her feet and he braces a sword.

 _This is it,_ she tells herself, standing and straightening her torn, bloody robes with the one hand.

The man pulls the sword back as if he plans on taking her head - maybe he does. But that one choice, that stupid stance, gives Melancholia the chance she hoped for. The sword goes up, leaving his belly exposed, and Melancholia flies into action.

She's small. She's never liked being so meagre, so waify, and yet it allows her to thrust herself toward him, under his reach, and slide the dagger into his gut. 

She begins to twist the blade, to drag it through his belly, but the man seizes. He drops. The blade, still lodged in his abdomen, glows very faintly before returning to normal.

Melancholia sinks to her feet, eyes wide and uncomprehending. The dagger is small - there's no possible way that it should have killed him instantly.

There's no way.

She's tired and dizzy. So dizzy. Melancholia places a torn, bloody hand to her forehead and sinks to her knees beside the dead man. She manages to remove the blade, tear her tattered robe at the arm, and wrap the dagger in it. All of that goes into a pocket inside her robes.

And then she allows herself to lose consciousness.  
  


* * *


	9. Trouble

* * *

  
The rain picks up. Valkyrie peers into the gloom outside of the cabin, eyes narrowing. The glass keeps fogging; it's getting to the point where Valkyrie can't clear it well enough to see.

"I'm going over there," she says finally. 

"I thought we were supposed to stay here until they need us," Never murmurs, untying her hair and working a brush through it. Sanguine lounges in a chair in the corner - the only indication he's awake is his gum-chewing.

 _"You two_ are supposed to stay here. I'm going alone."

"That's stupid," Never argues; it comes out as a weak rebuff, though. Never knows that she can't convince Valkyrie of anything. "They'll see you come from here and then our cover's blown."

"Given the way they been starin'," Sanguine murmurs, "I assume they already know we're here, sweetness."

Never scrunches her nose. "If anyone gets to leave for a bit, I say it should be me."

Valkyrie gets to her feet and reaches for her coat. "How's the hurricane?"

"Speeding up, and still on a crash-course," Never murmurs. She sounds nervous, but not overly so. Valkyrie supposes that's one of the best parts about being a teleporter - it's hard to be _too_ worried about nasty weather. "About two days out at her current speed. Four or five if we're _really_ lucky and she decides she preferred being a tropical storm."

"Plenty of time," Valkyrie says, unconcerned. She slips into her coat, and then her fake Temple robes. Valkyrie murmurs to herself, going over the plan in her mind, and tucks her hair into a newsboy cap. The hood comes up over it all, draping her face in shadow. "Right - I'm going to try getting in there."

"Be careful."

Sanguine chuckles at that. "Dibs on Tanith if ya die."

"Gross," Never mutters.

Valkyrie doesn't grace him with a response. She smiles at Never, hoping that it's soothing. "Be back soon."

She slips out of the cabin and skirts around the back. She steals through the trees, keeping out of sight, and crosses the lonely, water-logged road toward the cemetery. She hops around the biggest puddles marring the washed-out cemetery entrance, plodding through the smaller ones. Her thumb anxiously rubs at her middle finger - there's no necromancer ring there anymore. It smashed during her last stand against a Faceless One in Australia.

God, she wishes she had it. She wishes she went to Wreath and asked him to forge a new one. _Your third in as many years,_ Wreath would have gently scolded her. 

But Valkyrie couldn't bring herself to see him, and so now she has one of Skulduggery's guns tucked into the back of her jeans and six additional bullets in her pocket. Not the best way to carry it, she knows, but she didn't have time to get a fitted shoulder holster. 

She makes it to the crypt that hides the Temple from view, knocking on the heavy wooden door and peering at the slide-away section, waiting.

Nothing happens. There is no sound from the other side of the door. 

"Bloody hell," she mutters, knocking again - louder, longer. Still nothing. "Are you serious?" she asks the weeping sky. And then she kicks the door.

She's strong, but she isn't that strong - the door doesn't budge, and Valkyrie's knee throbs in protest.

She grumbles to herself and slides back into the rain, jogging through the muck to the pair of men standing in the graveyard, staring vacantly toward the hidden cabin.

"Hey!" she calls to them. "I need to talk to Cleric St Clair. I'm with the Irish Temple."

The men don't move. They don't even bother looking at her. Valkyrie opens her mouth to shout the words, but one of them turns and begins to walk away. He glances back at her, wordlessly motions her to follow, and then continues his path.

Valkyrie doesn't like this - she doesn't like a lot of things, though, so she presses onward. She follows behind the necromancer, a hand stealing away behind her robe to check that the slit she cut into it is still in a decent spot for her to grab the gun. Her fingers curl around the cool handle; she lets out a little breath of relief.

Everything will be fine. Skulduggery taught her how to shoot months ago - this will be fine. 

They enter the Temple through a passage that Valkyrie didn't know about. She wonders how many people _do_ know about it. It doesn't matter, but her anxious mind is trying to find something less ominous to focus on.

They enter through a rock wall that slides apart at the man's touch. He leads her through a dank corridor, one that Valkyrie has already traversed, and the next door leads into Leviathan's lab.

He turns to them when the door opens, his eyes narrowing. When Valkyrie slides her hood down, Leviathan's face goes steely. "What do you need, Arbiter?"

Valkyrie isn't prepared for this reaction, so she stammers around the first words. "What do I...?" She lets out a disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. "We've been trying to reach Melancholia. Is everything alright?"

"Everything is fine," is his terse reply. An egg timer on the desk beside Valkyrie dings and Leviathan sighs, shoulders slumping. He waves his hand; the body on the slab in front of him begins to breathe again. "I will have Melancholia contact you when I see her."

"I need to see her right now."

"And why would that be, Ms Cain?"

"What's going on with your brother here?" she asks, changing the topic, glancing at the necromancer who brought her in. "A little more zombie-ish than I remember them being last time. And no one is at the door."

"I require our brothers' and sisters' time. That is all." Leviathan steps away from the body on the slab - a woman, her hair a startling red. "Sister Spiel, please return to your post - I'd hate for Ms Cain to stand in the rain waiting on you again."

The woman slides off of the table, dresses woodenly, and then brushes past. She doesn't blink, and she doesn't meet Valkyrie's gaze.

Valkyrie waits until the woman is gone before stepping toward Leviathan. "What are you doing to them?"

"Ensuring they don't rise against Melancholia or me," he says simply. "The High Priest has threatened her safety if she remains - I cannot allow that."

Valkyrie's palms prickle with sweat. "Why are we keeping watch if you're turning everyone into..." she glances at the man who led her in. He doesn't return the gaze.

"You may leave," Leviathan offers. "You and your friends. We have no need of you now. Soon the High Priest will bend to my will, and soon Melancholia and I can live in peace. Isn't that what you want? Peace?"

"I'm not leaving until I speak to Melancholia."

Leviathan's sharp, lovely jaw clenches and his pale eyes narrow. "You forget who you're speaking to."

Valkyrie doesn't reach for her gun even though she really wants to. "I don't, actually. Where's Melancholia?"

Leviathan's fist clenches but no shadows lash toward her. The man behind her doesn't grab her, doesn't twist her head from her shoulders.

"Gerald," he suddenly says. A man shuffles into view from behind a bookcase, his eyes dull but seeing. He isn't like the Brothers outside or the Sister who just slipped past. "Find Melancholia, will you? Our guest seems intent on ruining our day."

"Yes, master!" the man chirps, more than pleased to be of assistance. He trots out of the room - Valkyrie tries to follow him, but the vacant-eyed man stops her, not allowing her to pass.

"I see your ring is gone," Leviathan murmurs. Those are his only words before he busies himself with writing in a notebook on his desk. 

It isn't threatening, but it is. Valkyrie moves to the other end of the room, as far as she can get from both men, and pretends to browse a bookshelf.

It takes thirty minutes, but Gerald leads Melancholia in. She looks tired, peaky. Her robe is large - possibly one of Leviathan's - and her hands are swallowed by the sleeves. "Valkyrie," she murmurs. 

"Never's been trying to reach you."

"My phone died," she shrugs. It's a lie - Valkyrie can hear it as plain as day. "As you can see, everything is fine."

Valkyrie can't see that, but she nods a little. "Maybe charge it since it's your quickest way to call us in?"

"Of course," she replies. It's blase. There's no hint of her usual bluster, her unearned supremacy. 

"What's going on?" Valkyrie asks Melancholia, placing herself between the other woman and Leviathan. "Where is everyone?"

Melancholia doesn't glance at Leviathan for an answer. "High Priest Virulent sent some of the Brothers and Sisters to other temples - to assure their loyalty to Leviathan. There aren't many of us left here."

Valkyrie doesn't believe her, but she certainly believes the creeping dread spreading along her arms. Darquesse grumbles, _"Something isn't right."_ Valkyrie can't help but agree, but she keeps it to herself. "Alright," she says slowly, stepping back from Melancholia. "Fine. I'm going back home - call Never when you need them."

"Be safe," Leviathan bids her with a false smile. "I hear there's a storm coming."

Valkyrie turns and retraces her steps outside, ignoring that the mindless man follows her and retakes his position between headstones.

Staring at the shack.

Valkyrie gets back inside the not-so-secret hovel and strips her outer layers. "We're in trouble. I think Leviathan's losing his mind, the other necromancers might be soulless husks, and Melancholia looks like she's a ride-or-die sort."

"Oh, that's all?" Sanguine wryly murmurs from his chair.  
  


* * *


	10. Sweet and Stupid

* * *

  
Melancholia waits until she's sure that Valkyrie is gone before she opens the door again. Gerald comes in, dragging a blackened Scapegrace with him.

"What happened?" Leviathan demands, striding across the room to look at Scapegrace. His body isn't much more than smouldering flesh burnt down to the bone.

"There was a sigil," Scapegrace moans, the sound scraping through a dry mouth and burnt tongue.

"Virulent's bodyguard attacked us," Melancholia murmurs. Leviathan straightens up from where he stooped. "He's dead," she continues before he can ask.

Leviathan sweeps her into his arms, tracing fingers along her face, through her messy hair. "Are you hurt?" he asks, but then his hands move the collar of his robe draped around her. 

He sees the shallow cut and his face draws into a snarl. "I will settle this."

"He's dead. I killed him," Melancholia opens her mouth to say. 

But no words come out. She feels something pulling at her, something dark and cold. Her eyelids flutter and she slumps to the floor. The world goes dark before she can hit the stone.  
  


* * *

  
Melancholia opens her eyes and finds Gerald staring down at her with his dumb, sweet face. "Mistress," he greets her brightly. "You fainted; Master left to find the High Priest."

"What...how?" Melancholia whispers. Something is wrong. There's something hollow inside of herself, something that didn't use to be there. 

"He said it wouldn't be hard - the High Priest never leaves his chambers-"

"How did I lose consciousness?"

Gerald looks confused. "You fell, and Master caught you."

"I felt something," she continues, blinking vacantly at the ceiling. "Something cold. And then..."

Gerald tilts his stupid, sweet head. "Do you want some water? Or food? I can-"

Melancholia sits up, using Gerald's shoulder to steady herself. She's on one of the mortuary slabs. Hers is clean, but the empty one beside her is blood-covered. Some of the stains are browning, old and oxidised. She tries not to think about what happened to the people who laid on that slab. 

She swallows - her throat is so dry. Her eyes are so dry. Her fingers are lethargic. "He killed me," she realises aloud. Gerald, to her surprise, does not contradict her. "He got mad and he...he killed me."

"Master loves you."

Melancholia looks at the fraying rug on the ground and then her re-bandaged hands. She can feel the stitches in her skin, how the cuts aren't split and oozing anymore. Leviathan took care of her body after taking her soul. He tended to her. He helped her.

Right?

She takes a breath, and then another, and whispers, "Sometimes we kill the things we love."

Gerald's stupid, sweet arms circle her shoulders and pull her into a hug. It's supposed to be comforting, she knows, but all she feels is hollow. 

"I'm scared of him. I think I have been for a while." 

Gerald says nothing; he simply holds her. 

"You are too stupid or too sweet to question us, aren't you?"

Gerald laughs as if she made a joke. Melancholia leans into him despite her disgust, despite her dislike for the zombified simpleton. She's too tired to do anything else.

"Help me to my room," she finally whispers when she's sure she won't pass out. When she's on her feet, Gerald holding her elbow for support, she asks, "Who are you loyal to?"

"Master and Mistress," he says quickly, proudly.

Her gaze turns to him, pinning him in place. "And if your Master raises a hand against your Mistress? Who are you loyal to then?"

Gerald's sweet, stupid face draws up in confusion. He doesn't answer, too bewildered. Melancholia swallows and then nods. "Help me to my room," she repeats.  
  


* * *


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

  
At first, Leviathan takes the High Priest's soul from his body. He thinks it's the best way to torture the man - to make him like the others. To pull his soul away, to strip it of everything it is and was, and then replace it. A husk. A soul that isn't a soul anymore.

But then Leviathan thinks of Melancholia, of the only person he's loved in his entire life. He thinks of her throat, the little slice, and his blood boils. His fists clench when he thinks of her hands, of the bloody bandages, of the cuts he painstakingly sewed back together.

Leviathan replaces the entirety of Virulent's soul and drags the man - whimpering, begging like the foul vermin he is - into the cafeteria. It's a mess of scattered chairs and a flipped table. The galley, from what Leviathan can see, is in an even worse state.

"Brother Lariat," he calls. The man in the hallway wanders in, staring through Leviathan. "Bring some rope, will you?" 

"Lariet!" Virulent hisses. "Lariat, you will remember your place!"

Lariat leaves them as if he doesn't hear Virulent. Leviathan grins and returns his gaze to the old man. "You _dared_ to send someone to kill her," he begins softly.

"I have done nothing against you!" Virulent shouts - tries to shout. It comes out like a wounded animal's dying gasp. "That girl-"

 _"That girl_ is the only reason you lived this long," Leviathan returns. It's mostly true - Melancholia has told him on more than one occasion that acting against Virulent would only thrust them into escape-mode sooner than they wanted. 

Sooner than _Leviathan_ wanted; Melancholia was ready to run from the moment her lips first met his. 

_All I want is you,_ she had murmured their first night together. _All I need is right here._

But there were things to learn, and the Temple was a perfect breeding ground for his experiments. Who here would tell him no? Would fight him?

Lariat returns with rope and ignores Virulent's attempts to order the necromancer into submission. Leviathan uses his shadows to loop the long cords around the chandelier brackets hanging high above them. He uses his own hands when he pulls Virulent to his feet and secures the ends to Virulent's wrists.

"You will never leave this Temple alive," Virulent spits out. "Release me, and I will let you and your little whore go."

Leviathan snorts a little, stepping back from him. The ropes keep him just off of the ground, the toes of his bare feet mere inches away. "Lariat is your son, isn't he?" Leviathan asks.

"Your sick meddling-"

"My sick meddling is ending your pointless life. Rather...your son is going to end your pointless life." He turns his pale eyes onto Lariat. "You liked hunting, didn't you? Of course you did - you delighted in it. In skinning your prey."

"No," Virulent begs. 

_Begs._

Leviathan's lips twitch a little. "Take your time with him - I want the skin intact."

He leaves the cafeteria with Virulent's screeches echoing around him.  
  


* * *


	12. Rewards

* * *

  
Melancholia hasn't seen Leviathan in over a day - not since he killed her in an accidental rage. She has to keep reminding herself of that part - _accidental._ He didn't mean to hurt her - he just lost control.

Melancholia hasn't gone to the cafeteria, either, instead sending Gerald to secure food for her. She made the mistake of investigating the screams coming from the dining room yesterday. She has no interest in seeing the nearly-dead, skinless body of High Priest Virulent again.

Gerald tells her that Leviathan revives him sometimes - just to watch him die all over again. Just to see the dried husk flail into another oblivion. She doesn't want to see it - Gerald's descriptions, as childlike as they are, are enough.

So she practices with the stolen dagger, carefully gloved and covered head-to-toe to keep herself safe. Melancholia uses training dummies, slicing across midriffs, stabbing into blank faces, and feels the cuts on her hands sting with the sweat from the workout. 

"Mistress," Scapegrace rasps from his place by the doorway, "Master is coming."

Melancholia tosses the dagger away, her shadows looping around it. They quickly and effectively stash the blade into a weapons rack on the far wall before coiling, lashing at the dummy, taking it off of its stand and clattering to the floor.

"Master," Scapegrace greets.

Melancholia turns, forces a smile, and murmurs, "Come to spar with me finally?"

Leviathan doesn't smile, as she thought he would. He comes to her and sweeps her into his arms, pressing his lips against her sweaty temple. "Last night was the first time we've been apart in weeks. I missed you."

"I missed you," she repeats - she isn't sure if she means it. She thinks she might, but...it's hard to tell now. 

"You're shaking," he says, pulling back a little. His face is pure concern, pure remorse. "Did you..." he pauses, hesitates, and then glances back toward the burnt body that houses Scapegrace. "Step outside."

Scapegrace shuffles to do as bid. Melancholia isn't prepared for the fear that shimmers across her body when Scapegrace leaves, when she's alone with Leviathan. "I-" she begins, but Leviathan cuts her off.

"I never want to hurt you."

"I know. You were upset."

"That's no excuse," he chides her.

It isn't - she _knows_ it isn't. With all of her parents' faults, they raised her to stand on her own two feet - to never let someone harm her without proper recourse. And yet here she stands, staring into Leviathan's green eyes, and says, "Your control is still unstable sometimes. I understand."

A shadow of something passes over his face. Annoyance, perhaps? But he doesn't say anything about it; he kisses her forehead and brushes her hair from her face. "How long've you been back here?"

"Only an hour," she lies with a little smile. "I thought I might as well work on some self-defence seeing as I was woefully unprepared yesterday."

"As much as I want to protect you myself, I think that is a good idea," he murmurs. "I won't be there every time something goes wrong, even though I'll try." His voice lowers a little. "Scapegrace was there, too, right? Why didn't he-"

"I would be dead if he hadn't been there," she says before he can get some idea about flaying what little skin Scapegrace has left.

Leviathan's lips turn up into a small smile. "Then I guess he needs a suitable reward, yeah?" He pulls away from her after a kiss. "Bring Scapegrace down in a few hours - I have something I want to try."

"Of course," she says even though she wants nothing to do with whatever he wants to try. Before he can leave, she takes his sleeve between her fingers, pulling him back. "I don't want to stay here."

Leviathan's gaze softens. "I know you don't like it here, but we have everything we could ever need. I am building an army - for you. For us."

"Why?" she asks, the word coming out more forcefully than she expected. "Why do we need an army? Why can't we just -- just run? We don't even have to run! No one is looking for us."

"And the other temples? Do you think they will just let their Death Bringer slip into the ether?"

"I can say you died!" she insists. "No one else knows who you are - just us. Everyone else is..." she swallows. Dead. Mostly dead. Soulless husks.

"And what will they do to you?" he asks softly. "The only one alive."

Melancholia hadn't thought of that. She hadn't thought of anything past getting the hell out of this temple, out of America. "I..."

"This is where we belong," he says with a soft smile. "This is our home - this is _your_ home. I'm making all of this for you."

Melancholia closes her eyes and nods. She accepts his kiss to her forehead and manages not to cry.

He leaves her; Scapegrace returns to the doorway. His one intact eye is hazy when it turns on her. "Mistress..."

She forces a smile, but it begins to crumble. Scapegrace moves toward her; she recoils, shaking her head vehemently. "Don't touch me."

He steps back and turns his gaze into the hallway, keeping guard. Melancholia swallows down the tears and then uses her shadows to retrieve the dagger.  
  


* * *


	13. Deep End

* * *

  
The storm has been raging for hours, high winds shaking the shack around them. Sanguine, who seemed unconcerned about the hurricane for most of the day, is suddenly slightly pale. Valkyrie doesn't admit it to the others, but she's spent the past hour considering the real possibility that a tree might fall in on top of them. And the real possibility that they're sitting here in America for no goddamn reason. That Melancholia's run off with the Death Bringer. That the Death Bringer might have gone off the deep end.

That Skulduggery was right.

"What're we doin' then?" Sanguine asks suddenly when a thunderclap shakes the earth around them. "Don't know if you're aware, but we got this little trick durin' storms. Count the seconds between the lightnin' and the thunder." 

"You've mentioned it twice already," Never mumbles from where she is pretending to read. In reality, she's raking a hand through her hair, nervously coiling strands around her fingers.

"Well good, then you're aware that there's less than a second between each."

Valkyrie ignores them, grabbing her phone from the table and rechecking her Whispering account. Nothing. Complete silence.

She thinks about sending a message to Skulduggery. She considers telling him that they might need Lord Vile, that Leviathan may have gone off the deep end. 

Before she can do anything, something heavy smacks into the front door, shaking it in its casing. Valkyrie is on her feet in an instant, thumb going to rub across her necromancy ring. But the ring is gone. Destroyed.

The noise on the other side of the door turns into rough knocks, and then a voice Valkyrie doesn't expect. "Open the bloody door!"

Never takes Sanguine's shoulder in case she needs to teleport them. Valkyrie hops across the small shack and swings the door open - it's difficult seeing as the wind gusts at the same moment. Valkyrie struggles to keep the door open while the rain lashes in on her. 

A figure hurries inside. Valkyrie lets the door slam, breathing heavily against the sudden adrenaline. "Jesus Christ, Melancholia-" Valkyrie breaks off when she realises that Melancholia's face is splotchy with more than the rain. "What happened?" she asks.

Melancholia's sodden outer robe falls to the ground with a wet thump. Her pale eyes, usually so beautiful, are red-rimmed. "He's gone mad," she says.

Valkyrie doesn't know what to do. She opens her mouth and closes it, shakes her head. "I don't...what happened?"

"They're all gone - all of the necromancers. He's..." Melancholia breaks off, shaking her head. Her gaze is far-off, lost in a memory or thought. "He's turned them into...something. Not human. They can't feel, they can't think -- all they do is follow his orders. They're..." she swallows. 

Valkyrie hesitates, trying to decide how to handle things. She settles with stepping closer to Melancholia, attempting to take her shoulder in a comforting move. Melancholia flinches away, stumbling over her own feet. "Don't touch me!" she snaps.

"Sorry, sorry," Valkyrie soothes, stepping back with her hands up in surrender. "I'm sorry."

Melancholia swallows over and over as if trying to keep her stomach from heaving. "I love him," she says. Valkyrie nods - that much has always been obvious. "I can't...I can't hurt him. I just want him to be somewhere he can be safe. Where he can't hurt himself or others or..."

"We have something," Valkyrie murmurs. "The holding cell they used for Argeddion."

"Argeddion broke free and wreaked havoc."

"Yes," Valkyrie says slowly, glancing over at Never and Sanguine. They're both watching - the Texan, for once, keeps quiet. "But Argeddion was a different beast entirely - he used telepathy to turn the scientists into his slaves. And even so, it still took him a century to break out. We can keep Leviathan there until we determine a better solution."

Melancholia looks exhausted. She looks broken. 

Never gets to her feet, moving slowly so as not to spook the frazzled necromancer. "Do you want me to let China know to prepare the cage?"

"Cage?" Melancholia repeats, eyes widening.

"It's just what we call it," Valkyrie calms. "It's not a _cage;_ it's a large, contained stasis pod."

"I can take you to see it?" Never offers. "If you...you know. If you don't mind me taking you somewhere."

Melancholia doesn't look at Never - her eyes stay trained on Valkyrie. "Promise me that he won't be treated like an animal."

"I promise. I swear it."

Melancholia places a bandaged hand to her forehead. "I'm so tired," she whispers.

Valkyrie moves toward her again, slower this time, and places a hand on her elbow. "You're freezing. I have some extra clothes - let's get you changed."

Melancholia, to Valkyrie's surprise, doesn't fight. The woman lets Valkyrie lead her into the bathroom. She even allows Valkyrie to undress and re-dress her in a large tee. 

When they return to the dimly lit main room, Never and Sanguine are gone - checking on the containment room, no doubt. Valkyrie takes the reprieve to get her sleeping bag out and unrolled. "It's not the most comfortable, but you look like you're going to pass out at any second, so..."

Melancholia slides into the flannel cocoon, her heavy lids already closing. "Please don't hurt him."

"I'm going to try not to."

"And the skeleton? Is he willing to say the same?"

"Skulduggery isn't here - just me, Never, and Sanguine."

Melancholia looks less concerned - Valkyrie can't blame her, really, given Skulduggery's threats. Valkyrie hesitates before offering her hand to Melancholia. The blonde looks at it, narrowing her eyes and muttering, "We're not friends, Cain."

"Doesn't mean I can't offer you some comfort."

Melancholia rolls over, back to Valkyrie, and curls herself into the smallest shape she can.

Valkyrie nods to herself, stands, and begins to change into her armoured clothing. She hopes she doesn't need it, but she's not about to go in without some assurances.

* * *


End file.
